Cameron McIntyre
The Plumbing Poet
The Plumbing Poet
Cameron’s Books If you would like to purchase any of Cameron’s books please contact him on  028 91810982 or 07850578275
Need A Plumber For all your plumbing needs check out the website for McIntyre Plumbing & Heating by clicking on our logo.
At Scrabo’s Feet At Scrabo’s feet It pinpoints the eye, a kaleidoscope and the drama of whereabouts. The thrusting new shoots on tilled fields, skirts of sandstone clustered on the countryside over bramble bush and heath. Views are camped In the slopes of the drumlins, upon the falcons and the ravens that rest on rock and quarry dust. The flames of willow herb frolic in the morning sun, the tarpaulin of mossy woods where oak and sycamore grow. So handsome is the towering Scrabo, peeking over hill and mountainside, The tended herds of farmers and a polished heartbeat sweeping in the air. Where windfalls of pillowed crops breathing from the soil, bound in the canvas of the mind are transplanted from the pitchfork to your very soul.
©  2016 Cameron McIntyre - the Plumbing Poet - local poet living in Newtownards, County Down, Northern Ireland
Please contact Cameron McIntyre for more information on his work. 25 The Willows  Newtownards Co. Down BT23 8FJ Northern Ireland Tel: 028 91810982 M:  07850578275
Cameron’s works have raised thousands of pounds for local charities including Northern Ireland Children’s Hospice who benefited from the proceeds of Cameron’s last book and will also benefit for the proceeds of this latest book. Please click on logo for more information
Hail to the Fry The savouring smell trailing around our house, without exception, our kitchen is in every room. The pan is blistering my mother’s hands, red hot jsps exploding like fireworks. Sausages sizzle in the boiling oil; Soda bread submerged in the juices. Potato bread frying through the soptted skin, the bacon ends are curling up, smoked and back. The eggs are cracked against the pan rim, cascading into the furnace, the egg white and yoke. The tomatoes’ and mushrooms’ crispy heads and toes, neighbouring with the black and white puddings. The Ulster fry trailblazing the passers-by, Its endless ingredients and extras. Like fried bread or pancakes or beans, with ketchup and HP sauce. So hail to the fry, to the fry, to the fry.  
Buttercup Among the wilderness of wild growing flowers, You, my buttercup of summer, Murdering every corner I stand in. Falling in the scented air of desire, Both just a yellow patch on Island hill, Where the buttercups shone under our chins. Sweltering my words there melted, Summarised and somehow, Baptised in your blood red lips. Perhaps the cluster of buttercups, Will romanticise us lying with them, Just buried here in love and gold.
A Boy Looks Out To Sea Across the soldered skies, A stranded boy trembling, Standing on the sand and shingle, A little sole with a sandy print galvanised to the ocean. Huddled on the pier were fishermen, Planting their catches ashore, Onto crates and fishmonger vans, Ruffled brogue coarse and sombre. The news bandied about was delicate, The ‘Dawn Prince’, surrendered living souls, The mourned were brothers and heroes, Names touched town folk like an unstitched wound. A storm that netted five, Siphoned into the drunken swell, A magnet that drew and sucked and swallowed whole. The looming waves like blades sheering off the Atlantic. But in a small corner on a fishing harbour, A son is waiting for his daddy, Howling through every sinew, Tears disappearing back to the sea, back to daddy. That young boy eventually became a man, Who blew out each aftermath that piled up, And in time learnt, the fiery dragons in his head are dead, And his father, not in the dark fathom but living again.
The Plumbing Poet
The Plumbing Poet
Cameron’s Books If you would like to purchase any of Cameron’s books please contact him on  028 91810982 or 07850578275
Need A Plumber For all your plumbing needs check out the website for McIntyre Plumbing & Heating by clicking on our logo.
©  2016 Cameron McIntyre - the Plumbing Poet - local poet living in Newtownards, County Down, Northern Ireland
Hail to the Fry The savouring smell trailing around our house, without exception, our kitchen is in every room. The pan is blistering my mother’s hands, red hot jsps exploding like fireworks. Sausages sizzle in the boiling oil; Soda bread submerged in the juices. Potato bread frying through the soptted skin, the bacon ends are curling up, smoked and back. The eggs are cracked against the pan rim, cascading into the furnace, the egg white and yoke. The tomatoes’ and mushrooms’ crispy heads and toes, neighbouring with the black and white puddings. The Ulster fry trailblazing the passers-by, Its endless ingredients and extras. Like fried bread or pancakes or beans, with ketchup and HP sauce. So hail to the fry, to the fry, to the fry.  
At Scrabo’s Feet At Scrabo’s feet It pinpoints the eye, a kaleidoscope and the drama of whereabouts. The thrusting new shoots on tilled fields, skirts of sandstone clustered on the countryside over bramble bush and heath. Views are camped In the slopes of the drumlins, upon the falcons and the ravens that rest on rock and quarry dust. The flames of willow herb frolic in the morning sun, the tarpaulin of mossy woods where oak and sycamore grow. So handsome is the towering Scrabo, peeking over hill and mountainside, The tended herds of farmers and a polished heartbeat sweeping in the air. Where windfalls of pillowed crops breathing from the soil, bound in the canvas of the mind are transplanted from the pitchfork to your very soul.
Buttercup Among the wilderness of wild growing flowers, You, my buttercup of summer, Murdering every corner I stand in. Falling in the scented air of desire, Both just a yellow patch on Island hill, Where the buttercups shone under our chins. Sweltering my words there melted, Summarised and somehow, Baptised in your blood red lips. Perhaps the cluster of buttercups, Will romanticise us lying with them, Just buried here in love and gold.
A Boy Looks Out To Sea Across the soldered skies, A stranded boy trembling, Standing on the sand and shingle, A little sole with a sandy print galvanised to the ocean. Huddled on the pier were fishermen, Planting their catches ashore, Onto crates and fishmonger vans, Ruffled brogue coarse and sombre. The news bandied about was delicate, The ‘Dawn Prince’, surrendered living souls, The mourned were brothers and heroes, Names touched town folk like an unstitched wound. A storm that netted five, Siphoned into the drunken swell, A magnet that drew and sucked and swallowed whole. The looming waves like blades sheering off the Atlantic. But in a small corner on a fishing harbour, A son is waiting for his daddy, Howling through every sinew, Tears disappearing back to the sea, back to daddy. That young boy eventually became a man, Who blew out each aftermath that piled up, And in time learnt, the fiery dragons in his head are dead, And his father, not in the dark fathom but living again.